


And you shall be its scribe

by altairattorney



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, Shivering Isles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: It is always the Mysterium Xarxes.





	And you shall be its scribe

“Do you remember me?”  
  
The hero jolts awake, terrorized by the grip on his wrist. 

He reacts quickly; he is no stranger to fear and exhaustion. He has learnt the key to safety is to make himself calm down. A frantic heartbeat, at decreasing speed, regulates his thoughts.  
  
Martin, passed out. Himself, exhausted, asleep on a chair. His hand, in a grasp stronger than steel. Mysterium Xarxes – _oh_.  
  
It is always the Mysterium Xarxes.

“Friend?”  
  
No, Martin’s voice is not the same. It wasn’t the same before he fainted, either. It comes back for the first time after hours, and it is feeble, innocently afraid.

“Please, answer, if you can. Friend. Do you remember me?”

“Martin,” the hero calls, as soothing as he can manage. “I am right here.”  
  
“Not _here_ , silly. This is the Scrolls we are talking about. You know there is no  _here_ , let alone a  _now._ ”

That damned book.  
  
He may have fainted before, but anything this serious is a first. A problem he never solved, a secret unheard of. 

The champion feels fear washing over him once more, in layered veils as delicate as the foam in the sea.  
  
Hopefully, this will be the last time.   
  
“Martin, are you alright?”  
  
“Just fine, you should know. Just fine. Come on, you have known me for so long. You should – oh, no, there is no need to call him. Don’t. ” 

The frantic call for Baurus dies in his throat. How Martin foresaw it, the hero does not know. He is bound to silence by a spell, and moves Martin’s hand from his wrist to his own.  
  
“I tell you, friend, this is not the time. Don’t call your servant  _now_. I need you to listen to me.”  
  
The hero nods, doing his best to ignore the knots in his gut. An unnamed instinct tells him he must follow, no matter how unspeakably wrong it feels.   
  
“I will,” he says, tentatively. “But… Martin, we are opening the portal tomorrow. You wore yourself out, andyou should be sleeping.”  
  
“I  _am_! Don’t you understand?”  
  
The sudden desperation in Martin’s voice is like a cathedral bell. A powerful ringing, tied to timeless rituals. It steals the champion’s attention, nailing him to whatever he’ll say next.

“We are made of sleep! You and I both, and the others. We are but puppets in a dreamer’s mind. We exist in the cycles of a cosmic slumber. Fragile it is, broken in thousands of fragments. Which is just why - please, listen!”  
  
“Alright, alright, calm down,” he whispers. “I am here. I am listening.”  
  
The silence that follows envelops them both. It takes him a while to notice Martin’s face is wet with fresh tears. Before either can speak a word, he takes the champion in his arms, and holds onto him as if they were slipping away.  
  
“It’s you,” Martin sobs, almost voiceless. “It’s been so long… but… we – we don’t have much time. So hear me out.”  
  
The hero decides he has no better choice. He just cries, in a liberating silence, and listens.  
  
“You must not forget,” Martin pleads. “I know it is all you want right now, but please. Do not forget what you are doing and what it means. The Elder Scrolls… they are a name, you know? We are all named after them, and name them in return. All we think, all we make reality, is the Elder Scrolls. We are words, my friend! Words and dreams and love. You will understand in time… just like some Dragons have, in their sky walks. What really counts is _this:_ you are the scribe. Don’t let it get to you.  _Do not forget!_ ”  
  
The hero leans back to face Martin again. He too is broken, now.  
  
“You… you are not making any sense,” he says, in between tears. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“You must.”  
  
Martin’s reply is fierce, like his voice always is when he knows what he is doing. In a spark of shared folly, the hero begins wondering just who he is talking to.  
  
“I told you before. More than once. I will tell you time and time again, every time we meet. The world is written by many, and by many it will be – but you hold the pen now, and it’s all that matters. It is your turn to shape what is to come. I can’t… no more… not the same way. But listen.”  
  
If this is the evil influence of Daedric artifacts, the hero thinks in fragments, Martin was right. The glow in his eyes is otherworldly, and out of anyone’s control. For reasons he can’t name, it pierces his soul.   
  
“You must remember me. Don’t leave me. Write this down – I will  _not_ throw away what we have done. It is in our hands. You  _must be there_  when the next cycle comes… in some form, in some way. In the vast currents, find that fixed point… the point when you and I join forces once more, and stand for everything we left unfinished.”  
  
Martin’s forehead leans against his, burning. The hero is too shocked to react or move away. Whatever is happening, wherever his plea is headed, he must let it pass through his being.  
  
“You understand, don’t you? I feel it,” Martin says, half-smiling. “You and I, against it all. Forever. Until then…  _now_ … the Scroll belongs to you.”  
  
The hero does not find it in himself to leave. By the time he can move, Martin is asleep on his shoulder. He moves his limp body to the cushions, gently, only able to think he can’t tell Baurus about this.  
  
He touches his heart, in confusion and hurt. The sound of those delirious words rolls back and forth, just beneath his fingers. What pulled them from Martin’s tongue, he cannot guess; but the way they ring, somehow, seems to be fateful.  
  
It is as if they echoed, he muses, in two ways. From the past and from the future.  
  
He knows Martin will not remember. The following morning, he will be proven right. It will be his burden to recall –  
  
– when he spills rainbow ink with his imagination, all over the fabric of the world, and saturates it with his screams.  
  
What was Martin thinking, his twisted mind howls. He will never forget. How could he?

He _understands._

**Author's Note:**

> Giftfic for Ren and our lovely server, joining two requests: a convoluted headcanon of ours, and that final speech.


End file.
